You Can't Murder On an Empty Stomach
by EthyleneGlycol
Summary: Harry and Ron, on the run from Voldemort, have reached the end of their rope, until they discover that not even Voldemort is immune to a mother's advice.  You can't defeat your enemies on an empty stomach.


"See anything?" Ron asked, from his position at the door.

"No. Are those Muggles still downstairs?"

They had been on the run from Voldemort for months now, hiding wherever they could. The variety of caves, cabins, peasant cottages, stables, and pig sties couldn't hide them from Voldemort, and it appeared that this little Muggle girl's bedroom was about to become the next casualty to Voldemort's wrath.

"Yes, but I don't know for how much longer. I think they've started to grow suspicious of a room disappearing from their home, and I've neglected to renew the charms in case we have to move."

Harry pushed up his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "That's probably for the best."

It had been over a week since they had taken up residence in the small room. After their latest hideout in France had been raided, they had both decided it would be best to come back to Britain. It was time to stop hiding and end the war, and the first step was finding another place to hide.

"There's nothing going on out there," said Harry, turning to Ron. "Do you think I could have the bed tonight? I can't kill Voldemort with a stiff back."

"I told you, Harry. I'm the oldest, I get the bed."

"You want to duel over it?"

"You're sleeping on the floor. Now shut up and watch for Voldemort. I'm going to make a sandwich."

"A sandwich? How can you have a sandwich at a time like this?"

"Easy. Sandwiches are delicious and watching the neighborhood for Voldemort and his minions are not. Sandwich wins every time."

Harry turned back to look out the open window. He took a deep breath. There was something in the air, something foul, and it wasn't just the stench from the hairy neighbor lounging on his patio next door. It smelled a bit like…

"Corned beef? Why the fuck do you have corned beef? Don't you remember I hate corned beef?"

"Your mother might not remember, but after having eight years of complaints about corned beef etched onto my brain, it's the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing I think about going to bed. Now, if you're not going to eat, I am. Come over here and watch the window."

They traded places, Harry eating his corned beef sandwich amidst Ron's incessant mutterings about how he was trying to poison him.

"So," Harry said, finishing his sandwich and wiping his hands and mouth. "Where do we go from here?"

"If Voldemort's presence on this street is any indicator, I'd say it's about time to get moving again," Ron said, looking towards the end of the street. "Get the stuff ready to move, and make sure you leave that damned corned beef behind."

"Enough about the fucking corned beef, Ron. Now move over, let me see what's going on down there."

Harry poked his head outside the window. At first glance, nothing appeared to be wrong. The neighbor across the street was playing catch with his son in the fading twilight. The woman next door was tending her garden in the nude. The man up the street was preparing for another midnight lawn mowing for the third time that week. In other words, a typical evening.

"I wish that fucker would stop mowing his lawn every night. It's hard enough to sleep on the floor without that lawn mower roaring at all hours of the night."

"Damn it, Harry. This is no time to talk about a loon mooer or whatever it is those Muggles use. Look towards the other end of the street."

Harry turned his head, giving one last appreciative glance at the naked gardener, as he took in the visage of Voldemort casually strolling down the street, Peter Pettigrew at his side.

"Ah," said Harry.

"Ah? That's all you can say?"

"Yes. Listen."

Ron moved to stand next to Harry as they both strained to listen to the angry voices drifting up the street.

* * *

"First we shall see if anyone is home, as that is the polite thing to do. Lord Voldemort may be a lot of things, but impolite is not one of them. Isn't that right, Wormtail?" Voldemort asked, knocking on the door.

Pettigrew shivered at the icy tone he was addressed in. "Of course, my Lord."

"It would appear that someone is home. But why would they not answer the door? That is impolite."

"Perhaps you have the wrong house, my Lord?"

Voldemort turned and glared at Pettigrew, angrily backhanding him as he did so. "Are you suggesting that I am wrong, Peter? Are you aware that Lord Voldemort is never wrong?"

Pettigrew groveled, spitting blood out of his mouth. "Yes my Lord, of course. I was merely suggesting…"

"You were suggesting? Lord Voldemort only listens to suggestions he finds in his suggestion box, as that is the polite way of suggesting something to me. I presume you understand what I am suggesting you do?"

"Yes, my Lord. Perhaps you'd calm down and we could…"

"Calm! You're telling me to calm down? It's the wrong fucking house! Gah. I've had enough of your insolence for one evening. I'll come back with a more agreeable minion. Lucius would be good, and he's always polite to those that we so cruelly murder. Come, Wormtail. I'm in the mood for a sandwich. How does corned beef sound?"


End file.
